Insanity's Opera
by Germerica
Summary: Arthur doesn't believe the rubbish of a mysterious patron living in the opera house, nor does he believe the crazy stories of the Russian stage hand. USUK- Based loosely off of The Phantom of the Opera. *Rating may change to T
1. Prolouge

**_Prolouge_**

It was winter. The tall, young, broad Russian was probably in his early teens, accompanying his father to North America to the new country, the United States of America for a "new life". He remembered it well.

Too well.

Had his father not been such a heavy drinker, the young man's life might not have taken this turn. But that is how fate works, yes? And fate holds the marionette strings to our lives. The Russian knew this too well and would never forget when he watched his father fall to the ground, alcohol-poisoned blood staining the streets of the famous Boston. The old man had picked the wrong fight. One slip of his drunken tounge and he was dragged away from the bar and beaten.

What a fool.

The young, now fatherless Russian man meandered the town aimlessly once his father was buried. He did not speak to anyone. He was shunned by most. The only ones who talked to him were over-zealous church-goers and priests who constantly hastled, condemned, and pitied him. More than once did those pushy missonaries parade up to him while he was in a small tavern in the corner table by himself enjoying his watery soup that he had bought with what little wage he earned working for farmers.

"_Young man... Have you been saved?"_ They would ask.

The young man would allow a small smile to cross his lips and he would calmly respond, "_Well sir, I have never drowned."_

They would huff and tell him he was going to Hell if he did not repent. What was there to repent? He had done nothing wrong. He would bid them a good day (after quickly draining his thin soup) and depart into the icey wind.

It was colder than normal. He trudged through the street, wondering if he should get himself arrested just to get out of the wind, when he heard a soft sobbing. He followed the sound hesitantly. The source of the crying was a boy. He was dangerously thin, his hair was a light brown and filthy. His large, round, cereaulen eyes shone with tears. The boy looked at the Russian with those tearful eyes. A twinge of pain shot through the Russian's heart.

The boy was freezing. He was hungry. He was utterly alone. He was just like the Russian. The young man scooped up the child who was all-to-willing to embrace the other of a chance of warmth. The Russian held him softly with one arm and reached into his pocket with the other. He counted the money he had left. It was just enough for another bowl of thin soup and a decent hotel room

"Come, malyutka. Let us get out of the wind, da?"

The child nodded with much gusto, clinging the the chuckling Russian.

* * *

><p>After a good scrubbing, the young man had discovered the child was not quite as ratty as he had previously thought.<p>

His hair was a marvelous shade of blonde; it was as golden, really. Golden like a field of wheat and just as thick with a defiant cowlick right at his forehead where his hair parted in a widow's peak. His skin was pale, but not unhealthy looking.

He could talk for seemingly endless hours until he had finally talked himself to sleep much to the Russian's amusement. He tucked in the sleeping child and walked over to the window. He had a beautiful view of the ocean, and even better, the harbour. Only a few hours earlier, the older teen had seen a French ship pull into port. He had planned to try to get a job on the ship, but now he'd have to think of something for the boy.

He sighed deeply. He thought of all those priests dogging him about God and took a chance and said a small prayer; that he and the boy could sucessfully get on the ship and make it to Europe. He then curled into bed beside the boy and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep as lonliness ebbed away.

* * *

><p>The duo approached the ship. It all happened so swiftly that the young Russian wondered if it had all been a dream.<p>

He had walked up to one of the French officers, and tried his best to remember what little French he had learned in the ports of Europe with his dead fool of a father. He asked (politely he hoped) for a job for himself and the small boy who gripped the tail of his trailing scarf with his tiny hands.

"Is this your son?" The Frenchman asked.

"Nyet-erm- Non, monsieur. C'est mon frère."

The man narrowed his eyes, but wrote something down on his thickly bound record book. It was obvious he did not buy the lie for a minute, yet he seemed like he could care less.

"Ugh. Your French is atrocious, but we could use more brutes like you on deck. Your _brother_ can work in the kitchen." He said, stepping aside to let them pass.

Now it was onward to Europe. Onward to France, where hopefully the Russian and his new companion could find work.


	2. The Mystery Man

Arthur Kirkland was living a dream. His dedication to the arts had finally paid off, and he had not felt the least bit of remorse when he accepted the job and was finally able to tell his brothers to "sod off". For there he stood, gazing up at the marvelous Opera House located in the middle of Paris. Though he was absolutely sick to leave London and come to (God forbid) _France, _he was overwhelmed with the sheer reality that he managed this entire establishment. No longer could his demonic siblings torture him for being "different" because he was a somebody now who didn't have to resort to back breaking labor to earn a pathetic wage that barely bought bread. _I sure showed them! _He thought gleefully.

He entered the doors and was immediately greeted by a man slightly taller than himself, with very blonde, shoulder-lengh hair. As soon as he introduced himself, Arthur had to cringe at the remarkably thick French accent.

" Bonjour!" the local, rising-star thesipian greeted, kissing each of Arthur's cheeks (which had flushed with embaressment), "My name is Francis Bonnefoy and I am so delighted to meet you, _mon ami!" _he practically purred.

Arthur nodded in polite acknowledgement as he recomposed himself.

"Charmed." He said pointedly, causing the Frenchman to chuckle good-heartly, albiet annoyingly.

"Now, I would love to look around." Arthur said, desperate to walk after his long carriage ride and lacking the desire to continue talking to the arrogant actor.

"But of course, monsieur! Follow me." He winked and led Arthur to an elaborate theater.

Arthur's eyes lit up with the excitement of a child when he saw the dancers and thespians on the stage rehearsing, the elagant statues that lined the sides of the theater, the balconies; it was all to good to be true.

"I take it you like what you see?" Francis said, slyly sneaking a glance at the entranced Briton.

"Like it? I love it." He breathed, moving closer to the stage to get a better look at the rehearsal.

He had no idea how long he stood there, mesmerized by the wonderful choreography and the advanced, suave music of the orchestra, but it must have been awhile because he only snapped out of his trance when rehearsal was over. He spent sometime then greeting the dancers, actors, and actresses and introducting himself. He then began to meet the stage hands and back stage workers. By the end of the hour, he came upon the last staff member.

He was a rather large man. He was tall with sturdy, broad shoulders that were perfect for lifting heavy props. His hair was an ashen color and he had a round childishly innocent face with a small smile upon his lips. His eyes were a soft unusual shade of color; a light shade of lavender that seemed far less friendly than his small smile. He spoke with an incredibly thick Russian accent when he decided to greet his new mananger.

"Privet" He greeted, nodding in Arthur's direction.

Arthur smiled with as much energy as he could muster and returned the greeting, "Hello to you. My name is-"

"Arthur Kirkland. New management, da?" He interrupted, "I know who you are."

Arthur was taken aback by the stage hands directness. He took in a deep breath, and watched as the Russian looked him up and down with scrutiny in his eyes, masked by his innocent face.

"Right then.. and you are?" Arthur asked, trying to control the slight wobble in his voice caused by the intense intimidation of the stage hand.

"Ivan Braginiski, " he gave a mock bow as if to tease Arthur, "Head of all stage crew, at your service, Mister Kirkland."

Arthur smiled and nodded, "that is good to know. Is there anything I need to know about the Opera House? I mean, you would know being head of the stage hands and crew and wot not?"

Ivan's small smile thinned into a small line and he got a far-off thoughtful look across his face. The expression brought out the age in his face and Arthur realize that he was much older than he what he had thought. As he was pondering this, Ivan spoke, his voice soft yet something (Arthur wasn't sure what) lurked beneath the surface in his tone.

"There is indeed something you should know, Mister Kirkland," he began, lavender eyes locking on emerald green eyes, "You have another staff member, one you have not met yet and will _only_ meet on _his terms._" His voice had dropped to a very serious tone.

"This is _his _opera house. He knows it better than he knows himself. He knows where every crack is on every wall, and he knew you would replace the old manager before you did."

Arthur looked at Ivan with an unreadable expression. Was this man being serious? Or was this some sort of sick, silly joke that the staff played on new opera house members and this Russian fit the perfect mold to tell the story? Either way, Arthur was skeptical.

"You're saying that there is a ghost in my opera house?" Arthur quizzed raising a thick eyebrow.

"It is not _your _opera house. And he is no ghost. If there were ghosts he would refuse to stay anywhere near here. He is preculiar like that." Ivan chuckled affectionately.

Arthur could not help himself. Even if this whole story was a joke, he wanted to play along. He was curious. He pushed it farther, wanting to see if he could keep pushing until Ivan revealed a flaw in the story. There had to be one. It was just a story, right? Of course it was. So the Englishman pushed on with the tale.

"Have you met the mystery stage hand?" Arthur asked.

"Da." Replied the Russian, the small smile set back into its usual place on his lips.

"Oh really? And what does he look like?"

"He wears mask."

"Have you seen him without his mask?"

"Da."

"Then would you tell me what he looks like without his mask on?"

"Nyet".

Ivan was _grinning. _There was no way this was anything but a silly game to him. Arthur had taken the bait to hear a good story. Now, Arthur decided he was done. He looked at the Russian. The Russian was looking off into the distance, his trademark smile was now more like a cat-like smirk. He turned to Arthur who was rather confused.

"You follow me to stage, da? Come." Ivan said, moving towards the stage-left entrance.

Intrigued once again by the Russian's strange behavior, Arthur followed Ivan onto the stage. Ivan pointed out into the audience, to one balcony in specific. Arthur follow his gaze and looked towards the balcony. There, sitting with one leg crossed over his knee and his fingers laced together was a young man. He wore a dark suit with deep blue vest. His sandy-blonde hair fell around his head neatly except for one wild strange that defiantely stood up amongst the other strands. He had a white, bright smile... the only feature of his face that could be seen due to the fact that the young man wore a black mask that cover his whole face. He stood up and spread his arms in a warm welcoming gesture, looking straight down at Arthur. It was in that moment that Arthur realize he, Ivan, and this strange lad were the only souls in the theater.

"Welcome to my opera house." He said in voice that didn't quite suit his mysterious apperance.

It was higher than Arthur had expected, the voice of a young man who's voice had either just dropped or was still the stages of puberty. However, it was strong and clear, the voice that could easily be used on the stage.

"You must be the mystery man." Arthur said, annoyed. To him, the joke had gone far enough and he was by no means going to play the fool.

The young man's teeth shone as a peal of bolsterious laughter errupted from him, "well, well! Give the man a prize!" He snickered.

"Yes. I am the Mystery Man. And if I am not mistaken, you're Arthur Kirkland?" he said, leaning on the railings of the balcony he was in.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, lush eyebrows furrowing as he did so. He whipped his head around to look at Ivan. The joke had gone on long enough, he was no longer amused.

"Okay, gov'nor. Joke time is over. Now tell him to come down, _now._" Arthur said, annoyance caking his tone.

"No joke, Artie. I'm the real deal. If it makes you feel any better, I don't ask for a salary. I conduct my services for free." he giggled.

Arthur clenched his fists and ground his teeth, a scowl forming on his lip, "_do not call me 'Artie'."_ Arthur hissed through barred teeth.

Another obnoxiously loud peal of laughter escaped the man in the balcony, "Fiiiiine." He said with an over-exaggerated sigh.  
>"But only because I like you. I can tell by this short chat you will do good things for my opera house. Don't let me down." He said and Arthur could hear the wink in his voice.<p>

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but the man raised his hand calmly as if to silence Arthur.

"_Do not let me down, Arthur Kirkland_."

He then stepped up onto the railing of the balcony and leapt off. Arthur shouted and towards him, but Ivan roughtly grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

"He'll die!"

"Nyet! Watch..." the Russian ordered.

Before the young man hit the stage, a cloud of smoke burst from thin air and the young man fell into it. When the smoke cleared, he was gone. On the stage was piece of paper. Ivan let go of Arthur's arm and allowed him to run over to the paper on the stage. When Arthur got to it, he realized it wasn't paper at all, but an Ace of Spades playing card. Arthur picked it up with a shaking hand and stared at it.

"Still think it was just a story, Mister Kirkland?" Ivan asked with a sly grin.

Arthur was pale. He was speechless. He looked at the playing card and shook his head.

_What have I landed myself into? _He thought desperately in need of a cup of tea.


	3. Francis' Charms

_It had taken some work, but the Russian finally managed to learn enough French to interact with the other sailors. Not that he ever wanted to; his French wasn't _that_ good and he did not appreciate the mockery accompanied by his attempts to make the language smooth despite his thick native accent. _

_But he didn't need them. The American boy had become more than enough company. He was so full of life and energy while he followed the Russian chatting endlessly about whatever was caught in the web of his thoughts, the whole time a small hand was clasped onto the tail of the Russian's scarf. _

_Most of the crew say through the young man's claim that the American was his brother, but no one opposed it, or dared to for that matter, due to the Russian's startling introverted nature and intimidating presence. And he _did _put the smaller boy to work on smaller tasks (such as cleaning), and the Russian himself was a hard, diligent worker. That said, no one saw reason to question the two or make a fuss. _

_The Russian became more and more accustomed to life on the sea, as did the boy. The little American would rise with the sun along with the Russian to begin the days chores. _

_Indeed... the boy was wonderful company. Especially when he sang. _

_He had the voice of an angel and his voice was no where close to breaking. Though, strangely enough for the boy who was not shy when it came to talking, he would only sing for his "брат" (brother). The little boy would always find a way out of singing for anyone else; usually running away and hiding behind his Russian брат. _

_The Russian found it amusing as well as flattering that the boy would only sing for him... His big Russian брат._

* * *

><p>Arthur sat at his desk and tried to focus on his paperwork. There were bills to be paid and scripts to read over. Work. That was his escape from his hetic, disorganized life; the mind numbing task of sorting through "important business matters".<p>

The card from the previous day though, kept his mind from cooperating. Occasionally he'd catch himself looking over it, trying to see the value or signifigance of it. But once he reminded himself of what he was doing and what he _should_ be doing, he would set the card down and return to his dull work. Funny... he'd never found his work dull before the previous day...

"Bonjour, Arthur," Came a thick, obnoxious accent from the doorway.

Arthur looked up from his work to stare at the Frenchman. He was dress in a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the shirt was missing the top buttons revealing the toned chest and his pants where considerably tight, hugging the musclular legs that clued Arthur to his history in the ballet.

"That is Mr. Kirkland to you, frog. And haven't you ever heard of knocking?" Arthur scowled, turing his eyes away from the Frenchman.

"Ohonhonhon~!" Francis chuckled, stepping closer to Arthur's desk, "Do not be so abrasive, Mon petit Anglais! (_my little Englishman_)"

Arthur felt heat pool in his cheeks as Francis moved around to the back of his chair.

_How did he move so bloody fast? _Arthur thought.

Just as he was about to whirl around and tell the frog off, he felt warm hands situate themselves on his shoulders and gently begin to knead the muscles. Arthur felt himself relax as those masterful hands eased out all of the knots and kinks that stress had woven into his shoulders. Then Francis' breath was right in Arthur's ear,

"You work to much, _Monsieur_" He breathed.

Arthur shuddered when the hot words touched his ear. He could feel Francis' lips upturn into a smile causing the rough feel of his stuble to prickle his cheek. All the while, those hands worked effortlessly on the Brit's shoulders. Arthur bit his lip to suppress a slight moan when he felt a pain he wasn't even aware he'd had ebb out of his upper back. Ever observant Francis saw this and applied more pressure to the spot with the blunt of his palm, eliciting a small moan from the other.

"Ahem. As much as I assume I am interrupting something, I will continue anyways."

Arthur nearly fell out of his seat when the voice reached his ears and he realized that Francis, a bloody frog, had been giving him a should rub and oh _God he had been moaning!_

_"_Ohononon~!" Francis laughed that irritable laugh again, "Oh Roderich! Do not be so rude!"

The Austrian conductor snorted and strode into the room, "Well I have more important business here than trying to seduce the new manager, Francis." His hard gaze then landed on a red-faced and dazed Arthur, "He is trouble, just a fair warning, unless you like trouble."

He then plopped a thick stack of paper onto Arthur's desk.

"This is the most recent score I have written for the operetta I am writing. I am going to assume you have looked over the other scores?" He stated impatiently.

"Erm, yes. It is absolutely top-notch, I cannot wait to get into this one. " Arthur replied nervously, his cheeks still red.

"Good. Good day then to you. Oh, and Francis, you are needed on the stage." Roderich said as he left the room, Francis in tow, winking and blowing kisses as he left.

Arthur's head hit the desk in shame.

* * *

><p>Arthur had just finnished reviewing over Roderich's score when there came a soft knock on the door to his office. He sighed, and hoped that if he was quiet, they'd leave...<p>

Another knock. Damn.

"Come in." He sighed.

"привет, Mr. Kirkland. (_hello)" _Ivan politely greeted, taking a seat infront of Arthur's desk, a welcome change from the usual barging in that most of the employees that entered Arthur's office did.

"Oh, hello Ivan. What brings you here?" Arthur responded.

"Two things."

"And they would be?"

"The first is, I have come to give you the stage report."

Arthur's eyes widened, was it that late already? Everyday, Ivan came in and sat down to discuss needed repairs and possible costs, prop designs, and so on and so forth. This was no routine that the two flawlessly conducted. By the end of their business disscussion, Arthur had become curious as to what the other topic Ivan had to converse with him about was.

"And what else did you wish to tell me?" Arthur asked.

"Ah, yes. It is about _Him."_ Ivan stated with a smile.

"Oh... " Arthur subconsious trained his eyes on the Ace of Spades playing card on his desk, "go on." he urged less eagerly.

"He does not like how Francis was so easily allowed to rub your shoulders." Ivan continued matter-of-factly.

Arthur's cheeks darkened into a deep crimson at the mention of the day's earlier events. He had just pushed it out of his mind too...

"Well it is none of his business!" Arthur snapped, hand tightly clenching his pen.

"He thinks it is," Ivan said calmly, small smile still in place, "That is all the reason he needs."

Arthur was fuming. Ivan noticed and stood. Arthur watched him with scrutinizing, emerald eyes. Ivan's smile widened.

"I understand why you intrest him." He chuckled quietly, "And I asked me to give you this." the Russian said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a black envelope. He then set it on Arthur's desk and headed towards the door, leaving and politely shutting the door behind him without a second word.

Arthur scowled at the envelope for a good few minutes, hoping that maybe if he conjured up enough hate the letter would spontaniously combust... He snatched it from its spot when logic settled the fact in his mind that the envelope wasn't going to burst into flames anytime soon.

Carefully, he took his letter opener and slit open the paper, and pulled out a folded peice of paper. On the paper was a long, yet suprisingly legible scrawl. Arthur began to read it carefully:

_Dear Arthur Kirkland,_

_It displeases me how you seemed to enjoy the presence of Francis Bonnefoy. Though he is one of our company's finest dancers, getting involved with him would be a mistake. I hade to be the bearer of bad news, but the man will break your heart once he gets what he wants... which is not your love and affection if you catch my drift._

_Anywho, I would be most honored if you would come to the stage tonight, alone, at exactly eleven o' clock. I have something I must show you~!_

_Yours Truely,  
>The Phantom<em>

Arthur stared at the letter dumbfounded. Come to the stage... at night... _alone?_ Arthur knitted eyebrows together and looked at his watch and saw it read half past nine. He had time to think... Wait... why was he even considering going? It was possible suicide! He would be alone with a maniac! And only God knows what he'd have to show him... Arthur shuddered, his mind conjuring up deranged scenarios. That was it. He wouldn't go. No sir. No how... He looked back down at the letter and sighed. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind he knew he'd talk himself into going...

* * *

><p><span>Author's Notes<span>

I have no excuses. (Ok, is writer's block an excuse? No? Merg...) I truely am sorry it took so long for this to be updated. It truely is unfair to you guys who follow this story. But this story is totally writing itself. I had no idea where it was going when I sat down to type this up at... *looks at time* 12:44 a.m. Not to mention it took THREE DAYS to write... BUT LOOK! LONG CHAPTER, EH? EH?

Baha. I suck.

Also, I suck at writing mystery so it's pretty obvious who the boy and his "brother" are... but if you haven't figured that little detail out then you should be beaten with the logic stick. Seriously.

Bahaha. I still suck.

Thank you so much for reading and putting up with my crap. I will try my hardest to update semi-regularly (but don't get your hopes up; I suck, remember?). FEEDBACK IS LOVED!

One last thing... Erm... I'm not very good at writing yoai and stuff... so yeah... sorry for lack of hotnessness between Francis and Arthur...


	4. Meeting

Arthur had pace his office back and forth, back and forth a multitude of times talking himself out of visiting "The Phantom" only for a voice in head to whisper, "go ahead… live a little." His thoughts would always redirect themselves to the previous night and Ivan's story that turned out to be all to true… but what if he was right the first time and it was just a joke? What if it was just a sick joke that the crew insisted on playing and he was going to be the butt of it!

No. He would _not _have that. It would make him look like an utter fool and ruin the reputation he had worked so hard to create! Then he would have to return to Great Britain and resume working in a factory. Worst of all, he would have to forever endure the cruel mockery of his brothers' taunts, telling Arthur "I told you so!"

The frustrated Briton plopped down into his chair behind his desk and reached into his pocket pulling out a lovely pewter pocket watch and clicked it open. The hands indicated it was ten 'til eleven. Arthur knitted his eyebrows together and narrowed his eyes. He stared at the watch until the hands gave only a minute shift indicating another minute had passed.

Arthur sighed. He wasn't going. If this encounter was so important, then this so-called Phantom could come to him. Besides there was paperwork to be finished and bills to be paid! Perfect reasons not to commit himself to a meeting he _knew he shouldn't go to alone._

The Englishman took a deep breath and reached for a pen, but his hand brushed something smooth instead. He looked up and his eyes landed on the Ace of Spades playing card, sitting defiantly on top of one of Arthur's pens.

Arthur drummed his fingers on his desk and began taking more deep breaths.

_Don't! It's stupid! It's dangerous! It's… It's…_

His watch seemed to be ticking louder. He opened it and read the time; ten fifty-five…. He pushed his chair back practically jumping out of his chair and headed for the door, down the hall, towards the stage.

* * *

><p>Arthur stepped onto the stage. His heart was racing. His mind was clouded by the adrenaline pumping throughout his veins. A soft chuckle grabbed his attention.<p>

"You're just on time, Arthur. I was beginning to think you wouldn't show!" He

In the balcony just like the night before sat The Phantom. He had the same smug grin in his face as the night before… Only something seemed different about him tonight. He wore a navy button-down shirt and black slacks that hugged his thighs. Arthur's eyes continued upward to The Phantom's head. His hair was still neatly disheveled, wild strand defying gravity and all. But his mask was not the full black mask that he had adorned last night. Tonight it covered most of his face, but now Arthur could more clearly see the lad's pale yet flawless skin that wasn't covered by the crème colored mask.

The Phantom stood and gave a warm smile. He reached out and took hold of one of the stages many ropes. He slid down it effortlessly as if it was child's play and not a dangerous feat. He landed with a surprisingly soft _thump_ when his feet landed on the stage and he flashed Arthur a confident, flawless grin.

"So what the devil is this whole meeting about?" Arthur scowled, praying he didn't sound as nervous as he felt.

The Phantom let out a warm and husky chuckle, "Oh I think you know, Kirkland." He purred, slowly closing the gap between Arthur and himself.

Arthur stepped back with each step the other took forward, "I most certainly do not!"

"Then let me spell it out for you, Mr. Kirkland." He kept his steady pace towards the Brit, "I don't like how you allowed Francis' charms to seduce you. True he is a very charming man, but falling for him could be bad for your emotional well-being." He said in a business-like manner.

"And just how did you know about that?" Arthur said, his cheeks a bright red and his temper spiking.

"I assumed you'd be curious, and if you didn't look so cute blushing then I'd just say that I know everything," He chortled as Arthur's frown deepened, "But I'll go ahead and tell you. Rodriech told Ivan who relayed it to me." The other informed with a triumphant grin.

"How dare him?" Arthur seethed, only to then yelp as his foot slipped on the edge of the stage. He gulped and yelped again when he felt a large warm hand grab his shoulder pull him back to his feet on solid ground.

Thus said hands then continued their way down Arthur's sides until they rested on his hips. The Phantom pressed himself against Arthur's back, taking in the soft smell of Arthur's cologne. Arthur was frozen in shock. One of the other's hands gently slid back up the length of Arthur's sides, past his neck and titled his chin towards him.

"You should be more careful. I would hate for something to happen to you…" He said softly, gently pressing his lips to Arthur's neck.

Arthur trembled and tried to wriggle free, but The Phantom's grasp held fast.

"Easy, Artie… I won't hurt you, "He softly whispered into Arthur's ear.

Arthur felt himself involuntarily shudder. Damn his sensitive ears. He could feel The Phantoms breath and husky chuckle. He shuddered again. Damn it all. He felt like such a little whore… he fought harder, but it was no use. The other was just to strong…

"Ask nicely." the other said, thankfully not in his ear this time.

"…What?" Arthur responded, dumbfounded.

"Ask. _Nicely._" He chuckled again.

"What the bloody hell are you playing at?" Arthur snapped, renewing his (failing) efforts for freedom.

The Phantom sighed, "Ask nicely and I'll let you go. I promise."

Arthur looked up at the other for the first time in surprise, "You will?"

"Yup."

"And all I have to do is _ask nicely…_?"

"Yup, yup. Then I'll let you go."

Arthur turned this over in his mind… it was worth a try to get freedom.

"Will you let me go?

"Say please. It really cinches together the whole asking nicely thing." The Phantom chuckled.

"Fine, fine, fine…git," Arthur said rolling his eyes, "will you let me go, _please?"_

The arms that were binding Arthur released him and Arthur stumbled forward. He turned towards The Phantom who was grinning with childlike triumph that he had gotten his way. That white, flawless grin.. Arthur then saw The Phantom's eyes. The most beautiful, oceanic blue he had ever seen. They turned up in a smile and Arthur realized he was _free and still standing there. _He mentally cursed himself before giving the other a curt nod and heading towards the exit.

When Arthur got to the exit, he stopped to take a deep breath. When he did so, he felt something cold press against the skin on his hip. With a slightly shaking hand, he grasped the offending object with his finger and thumb. He gasped when he realized that it was a King of Hearts playing card.

Meh Notes

I'm so sorry that this took so freaking long to update... BUT I HAVE AN EXCUSE THIS TIME. Baha. So my computer is totally crazy and won't let me access the internet **at all.** Which is weird because I ran 4 full scans on it with two diffrent, reliable programs and clean my system... I'm on my mom's computer. How sad it that? Good thing I know loopholes to update... Aurthor's pole: How many people think she'd freak if she read this? My point exactly.

So as an apology gift, I worked on the smexy stuff. Oh God how I love me some Creeper!America. I'm such a freak... I hope this chapter is long enough... I suck.

Review my lovelies! Review!


	5. Memories and Wine

LAME EXCUSES BELOW!

* * *

><p>As soon as Arthur arrived at his flat he put on a cup of tea. He kept telling himself it was a dream; that what had happened only half an hour ago was only a dream; but he could feel the King of Hearts playing card burning a hole in his pocket. Frustrated, Arthur thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out the ludicrusly infurianting peice of cardboard and tried to throw it, but the card simply fluttered to the ground as if to mock the Briton and remind him of his weakness.<p>

Arthur scowled clenched his tea cup so tightly that the porcelien almost cracked.

_"Why? Why am I so damn stupid?"_ He thought outloud, searching around for something to throw.

Anything would do. He just needed something to ease himself. He felt hearing the sound of something shatter would calm his nerves, make him feel masculine. He grabbed the first thing in his line of sight. Arthur had the object in hand, poised to throw it into the nearest wall, when he stopped. He lowered his arm and looked at what he was holding.

Arthur frowned.

In his hand was a picture of he and his brothers. The only one he owned. The only one he had ever owned. The only one he would _ever_ own. In the photograph, they all looked so unhappy, each Kirkland brother had a scowl plastered to his face except for one. Angus, Arthur's eldest brother, stood in the back, his eyes glinted dark and cold in photo. Next to him was the second oldest, Patrick, who looked bored and apathetic; then Charles, who had a hateful glare on his lips; then himself, followed by his younger brothers Liam and Peter. Liam was the only one in the photo who was had always envied his youngest brother's ability to smile. Not even Peter, the baby of the family at eight years old, smiled very often. It was no wonder Liam was the favorite among the brothers.

The corners of Arthur's lips turned up slightly in a slight smile due to what might have been fondness for the photo. It had been taken the two weeks before he left for Paris. He remembered it had been Liam's idea. He also remembered how the others were so against it because they claimed it would only keep his memory around and they would rather forget him. What good would he do supporting the family in France?

Arthur felt his stomache churn at the memory, but he set the feeling aside on the shelf along with the photo.

Even if he didn't like the photo, he knew it had made him feel better. If anything, just seeing the ridiculous smile on Liam's photographed face was enough to brighten his day regardless of how insane it had been.

Arthur went to bed soon after that and dreamed of being in London far, far away from the opera house.

* * *

><p>"That's just like Rodreich to ruin a moment! He's such a <em>buzz kill<em>!"

"Si! And I bet that ruso loco was the first to hear about it, yeah?"

Francis and two other dancers sat at a table in their preferred local bar. It was quiet and somewhat shabby, but the food and the wine was good so they felt no need to complain. One of Francis' companions was a robust Prussian man who's skin and was pigmentless and his hair was as white as newly fallen snow. His eyes were a peircing and hypnotic red. By no means was he unattractive though his rude and abrasive behavior often outshined his outer appearance. The other was a mild mannered, somewhat quirky Spaniard who enjoyed the wine and ladies almost as much as his French companion.

Francis pouted out his lip and replyed to his fellows, "Oui... I was simply _welcoming _our new boss when Rodreich came bursting through the doors."

The Prussian who went by the name of Gilbert laughed loudly, "For someone who boasts blue blood he sure was raised in a barn! Right, Antonio?"

The three laughed, toasting their glasses.

"Estoy de acurdo," Antonio, the Spaniard, agreed, slipping into his native tounge, "but Francis, you do have a reputation..."

Francis shrugged and sipped his wine, "I suppose..." He drawled as if he were thinking deeply on the subject, "but I do like him. He's intriguing..."

"but those _eyebrows!"_ Gilbert said, eyes widening for effect.

"Oui... Something would have to be done about them." Francis chuckled, finishing off his glass of merlot.

The men carried on their conversation enjoying the night toasting and laughing. They only stopped when they heard the door of the quiet little pub shut. The trio looked over to see a tall figure looming in the door jamb. The figure strode to their table and took a seat across from Francis and removed his hood.

"Privet." Came Ivan's curt greeting.

The trio stared at him, unsure of what to think. It was Antonio to speak first,

"Buenos noches, amigo. What brings you here...?"

Ivan smiled a small, eerie smile, "I have a message for Francis."

The Russian reached into his black cloak and gently revealed a small envelope. He then gently slid it across the table to Francis who had gone pale.

"Спокойной ночи, Фрэнсис." Ivan said politely. He then stood, walked over to the bar, purchased a bottle of vodka, and left.

The other two men watched him go but Francis stared at the envelope. He knew in the pit of his stomache it wasn't from Ivan. He _knew_ who Ivan was a messager for though.

"Well... open it!" Gilbert hissed, leaning in.

Antonio gave an encouraging nod. Francis gently opened the envelope and pulled out the contents. Their eyes widened when they all could clearly see what it was...

In Francis' hand was a playing card and a small peice of paper.

The paper read, "_The joke is on you~" _And when Francis looked closely at the card, he saw he had recieved the Joker.

* * *

><p>MARCHING BAND IS A BITCH. If it were a woman, I'd tell that bitch to GIT BACK IN TEH KITCHEN!<p>

Jaykay. I wouldn't do that, because I'm a girl. Anywho, I've been super busy. It's senior year and I've been trying to fill out applications and write essays and I'm in the band so during marching season I'm not allowed to have a life because my director is a super-douche and so on and so forth...

But that's ok! BECAUSE AS OF MONDAY MARCHING BAND IS OVER! YOI! *throws confetti around and dances like total creep*

I really wasn't sure where to go with this for the longest time also. I'm going to try to incorporate Arthur's past into this more so be prepared. This story will probably suck and I'll probably give up on it because it was an impulsive thing and it's kinda writing itself and wot not... in other words: it kinda sucks.

Baha. Thanks for reading and please review!


	6. Under the Stage

The doors of the theatre shut heavily behind Ivan. A small smile was in place on his face as he stepped through the main hall. He entered the auditorium and strolled down the rows and rows of seats until he reached the stage. With elegance that one wouldn't expect from one so tall and large, he climbed onto the stage and walked towards a patch of slightly discolored wood on the stage. Gingerly, he kneeled down and carefully knocked, then made a haste to get back as a dark void opened up in the middle of the stage.

Ivan gently lowered himself onto a platform in the hole and pulled a lever on the wall. The trap door resealed itself and a small gas lamp that was hanging from the wall lit. Ivan lifted the lamp from the wall and shined it towards an even deeper hole just on the edge of the platform Ivan was standing on. He clipped the lamp to his belt and slowly descended into the darkness down the ladder.

He had to fall the last few feet to the stone floor below and landed with a soft thud. He then carried on down the long corridor until he reached an old dark, wooden door. Due to Ivan's size and strengh, it didn't take much for him to shove the door open. He was accustomed to the eerie creak the door's unoiled hinges made and the annoying sound of the bottom of the door scratched against the stone floor.

" 'bout time you got back, Ivan."

A young man lay sprawled out across a table, a bored expression etched into his face; or at least that's what his expression said as far as Ivan could tell to the best of his ability, due to the fact that the young man was wearing a mask that covered half his face.

"You should be more grateful, мой маленький." Ivan chuckled, taking a seat in a soft arm chair.

"I am!" The boy whined, rolling over to face the Russian, a pout set on his lips.

"Then do not rush me. I run your errands for you so that you may stay hidden." Ivan replied matter-of-factly as he pulled the bottle of crystal clear vodka out of his coat.

The young man looked away, knowing he was defeated, before saying, "I thought you were going to stop drinking?"

Ivan shrugged, grasping the neck of the bottle, then took a swig allowing the burning sensation to trail down his throat along with the alcohol. The young man clearly didn't approve, but said nothing.

After a few more swigs of vodka and silence, Ivan turned his attention back to the boy who continued to wallow on the table.

"You really should confront Francis." The Russian said, finally seperating his hand from his vodka bottle.

"I don't wanna..." The blonde said, his oceanic blue eyes narrowing behind his creme colored mask.

Ivan rolled his eyes, sometimes the boy was such a menace. He walked over and gently pat the boy's head. The blonde responsed to this with a curt swat at Ivan's hand and a bratty groan that sounded like the words "stop" and "it" had been melded together. Ivan once again rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"He wants Arthur, you know. And if he wants someone, he'll get him." Ivan said calmly.

"I _know_ that, Ivan!" The young man growled, immediately sitting up to shoot a glare at the Russian, "But I need time!"

"Time to do what?"

"To win him over. I'll confront the Frenchman and draw some boundry lines eventually, but I can't risk him catching me... It's too risky."

Ivan nodded slowly in agreement, his brow furrowing in thought, "does he even know your name?" The Russian said after a few moments.

A deep red blush pooled on the exposed cheek of the young blonde's face and his eyes darted away. He knew he forgot to do something. How could he be so stupid?The blonde knew he absolutely had to correct this mistake! But how? He couldn't possibly just walts up to the Opera House Manager and introduce himself. Blunt was _not_ his style. Amusement shown in the Russian's eyes as he watched his companion's facial expression change from confused, to shocked, to embarressed, to confused again.

"Perhaps you could use your cards? Arthur is driving himself nuts attempting to decipher them." The Russian offered helpfully.

"IVAN. SHUT UP I'M THINKING- Wait. The cards you say? That just might work..." The young man's voice trailed off as the gears in his mind began turning, "Yes... That could work."

"Just thought I should help before you hurt yourself."

"shut up, Ivan..."

Arthur's note

**I suck. **I would say I'm sorry that I haven't updated in a while, but I find it hard to write on this... The chapters are short and I'm just not sure where to go with it. Plus, I've had the plot bunny following me around... but the plot bunny is a tricky little bastard and is incredibly hard to catch... Maybe I should invest in a net... Anywho, this chapter sucks and I'm not sure when I'll update again.


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